Pyrexia ~ Chapter 11
When Enjolras awoke the next morning, there was but a little leaden light in the room. He was glad that it was early, and that the air sagged with the chill of a winter dawn. When he pushed back the covers, he was glad, still more, for the chastising sting of the cold. For Enjolras knew that he had been remiss of late. The events of the night before had proven as much. Yes, he remembered them well; they had not faded in the slightest with sleep. If anything, the sensations were more clear. The outline of Montparnasse's hands on his shoulders, the brand of those smirking lips against his own.
It had shocked him, as if he were still a boy from the provinces, freshly arrived in Paris, with his credulousness writ large on his face. For here was a vice which, in all his long hours musing on the moral failing and the abolition thereof, Enjolras had never thought of before. It was not the love between men that bothered him. Long ago, Enjolras had grown weary of salon conversations that revolved around nothing but the latest developments in the scientific study of "sexual inversion", and decided that, if such a thing really were a sin, then all sins should be so harmless to those involved.
No, it was not the act which had so unsettled Enjolras, but rather the ease with which Montparnasse had committed it. As if he had done it before a hundred times, which was, perhaps, not such an unreasonable estimate. He was a whore, after all. He'd said as much himself.
Enjolras found that hard to accept. He had never been intimately acquainted with such professions the way Courfeyrac and Grantaire were; however, he was well read in all the ways of human suffering, and on top of that he had once heard a most eloquent and informed speaker give a talk on the unfortunate lot of fallen women.
But Montparnasse seemed nothing like those unlucky creatures the gentleman had described. His looks had not been blighted by disease and worry; if anything, he had been more handsome in that moment of passion, when he had descended. He had seemed neither shameless, nor deeply ashamed, but rather only a little hesitant, a little curious, as if he didn't yet know what Enjolras would like, but he was prepared to try until he found something that stuck.
No, Enjolras knew that he had not been the first. All of Montparnasse's tricks had been honed in the dark corners of public houses, in alleys where the broken paving stones cut his knees. Down on his back in a cramped garden apartment, then up on his feet again, already counting his money and thinking of revenge.
Enjolras paused in the act of feeding a bit of kindling into the stove. He did not know where those last thoughts had come from, but they clung stubbornly and did not dissipate even when he shown the bright light of his high intellect upon them. He dropped the kindling back into the bin beside the stove and shut the little door. It seemed, suddenly, that he might prefer to endure the chill air a little longer.
He crept into the bedroom, where Montparnasse slept on. He wouldn't stir until the early afternoon, and by then Enjolras would be gone. He did not have plans to return until late, and he hoped that a day would be enough time to reorient his feelings towards this boy. Perhaps Montparnasse would even awake alone, feel embarrassed for what he had done, and slip out of the house. Perhaps, when Enjolras got back, he would be gone.
But he neither expected that, nor hoped for it. Montparnasse would not be gotten rid of so easily; he would stay, until there was nothing left for him here.
Enjolras gathered a clean set of clothes, and before he went back to the main room he risked one more glance at the bed. Though he had tried to stay as quiet as possible, he was not surprised to find that Montparnasse was awake. His yellow eyes peered out from a crack between the blankets.
"Where are you going?" he said, muffled.
"I have business," Enjolras replied stiffly. "I've been idle long enough."
"Okay," Montparnasse yawned, sleepy enough that he had forgotten for the moment that he was too elegant for colloquial speech. "I'll see you later. But don't forget, you promised you'd teach me."
"I did," Enjolras said, after a moment's hesitation. He had, in fact, forgotten completely.
Montparnasse closed his eyes again. "Bring back one of those little books with pictures for all the letters. I always wanted one of those."
Enjolras feared being away from his commitments for too long. For all the long weeks of Montparnasse's convalescence, Enjolras had not dared venture far from the boy's bedside. He had written to his professors pleading illness and begging to be excused from lectures, and he had dispatched Combeferre to keep his troops in line.
His days had seemed suddenly very long, and he had spent them reading and writing. But no time passed at all before his ideas dried up, and he could no longer concentrate on law and history. He retreated into adventure novels and little magazines of pastoral poetry. Enjolras would have denied it if anyone asked, but even he had a few such items around, and he battered his mind against them until it became dull from the trauma.
The slackening of his mental faculties was a horrifying feeling. He knew that he spoke with imprecision now. His thoughts lurched through a thick fog, surfacing from time to time, seemingly at random. When he wanted one in particular, he had to dig deep for it, and wrench it free by its roots.
Naturally, he blamed Montparnasse, though in truth he could muster little anger towards the young thief. He reserved his anger, instead, for a world that had the audacity to continue on his absence, as if it didn't need him at all.
Enjolras went to four lectures that day, and found the time in between them to pester as many professors into surrendering their notes for the classes he had missed. When one of them dared to ask if, perhaps, it wouldn't be better for him to wait another quarter to take his exams, Enjolras poisoned him with his eyes and declared he would be more than ready and he hoped it would be a challenge.
He left feeling that he had been too rash, that he had not behaved as a man recovering from illness ought to. But the professor had not been awed by Enjolras' fortitude, nor suspicious of his motives; he had only spared him a glance that lasted a little longer than normal. Enjolras had been surprised by that, for he had little reverence for scholars. He respected them for the knowledge they kept, and despised them for what little good they had done with it. He often had such conflicting feelings about people, and when in doubt he preferred to err on the side of dislike.
It seemed to him safer that way, for he knew there were few he could trust. And after he finished this visit to the long-neglected back room of the Café Musaine, he expected that list to have become even shorter. They would have made a mess of everything, Enjolras thought darkly. His lieutenants were faithful, yes, but they were quick to stray without his firm hand to guide them. So eager to wander down the wrong path…
Combeferre pulled him aside as soon as he entered, before he had a chance to survey the damage. Enjolras knew what he would ask about, that it would be the very thing he had come here to escape.
"I tried not to worry," Combeferre said apologetically.
"Yes, so did I." Enjolras was not looking at him. His eyes were combing over the room, over his comrades. They were engaged in dominos, in the papers, in their schoolwork; it looked much as it had when he had last been here. But Enjolras was not fooled. The sin and the slothfulness had crept in somewhere.
"I mean about that boy," Combeferre said. "You told me he was recovering. And then I heard nothing more from you. What was I to believe?"
"That I was caring for him, I should think."
Enjolras vowed he would say no more about it. Combeferre was dear to him, but there were some things that even dear friends did not need to know. But he felt the man's eyes on him, searching, and without meaning too Enjolras thought of the night before. Of Montparnasse's unclothed limbs, his damp hair. So clearly did he see them in his mind, that he feared Combeferre might see them too, reflected in the glass of his eyes.
Again, Enjolras found a lie springing to his lips.
"He's gone," he said.
"You let him go?" Combeferre asked. "Did you find out who he was? Anything?"
Enjolras shook his head. "He just slipped out one night. I was asleep. He wasn't anyone, Combeferre. Just an urchin. It's like you said, he had forgotten how to be grateful. And how to be sensible as well. Let us pray that his luck has taken a turn for the better, and then wash our hands of the matter."
"If you wish," Combeferre said.
He seemed hesitant, but Enjolras did not wait to find out why. He slipped past him, and escaped. "I see you've become lax in your work," he said, loudly enough to attract the attention of Joly and Courfeyrac, who glanced at him boredly and then returned to their game of dice.
"Hardly," Combeferre said. "But I knew you'd say that, so I was sure to take notes."
With a flourish uncharacteristic to him, he retrieved a folio from one of the tables, flipped it open, and presented the page to Enjolras. In the left margin there were was a series of dates, each followed by a line or two in Combeferre's tidy hand, concerning matters of covertly distributed pamphlets and stockpiled munitions.
"You might have had the sense to not write such sensitive information down," Enjolras said, but Combeferre only smiled, as if he had been given the highest praise.
"I'm sure things will progress much more smoothly now that you're back."
"Indeed..." Enjolras replied, but he was distracted. He had seen, out of the corner of his eye, the door swing open and Jean Prouvaire enter. His pallid completion and his tattered cravat grated on Enjolras nerves, but not as much as the way his eyes widened when he caught sight of Enjolras. The way his stride turned into a creeping shuffle as he approached.
Enjolras was quite certain he would never understand it. When Jean Prouvaire had entered the room, he had been resolute and of noble bearing. It was only when he had spotted him there...
Enjolras pursed his lips. Honestly, he was worse than Grantaire in some ways.
"I've missed seeing you," Jean Prouvaire said. "It has been a while."
There was something in his tone that Enjolras disliked instinctively. He turned away, giving Jean Prouvaire his profile.
"I would have thought you got your fill of me at my apartment," he said. He noticed Combeferre slipping away, extracting himself from the conversation. Enjolras could not understand why his cheeks suddenly seemed flushed with color, but that, too, aroused in him a deep sense of irritation.
Jean Prouvaire winced. "You're still angry about that, then."
"I was not angry," Enjolras said. "Though, if you have some business with me, I would prefer that you speak plainly and have out with it. These hints and murmurs do not convey your message so well as you think."
"There's nothing," Jean Prouvaire replied. "Nothing to be said."
His eyes clouded a little, and for a moment he seemed to look inward. "If only the ballad were finished..." he mumbled.
Enjolras scowled. He wanted to hear no talk of poetry right now. He had always thought of Jean Prouvaire's rhymes as skillful, but vapid; better suited for children's books and Ladies' quarterlies then the serious publishing establishments to which he was perpetually submitting work. He had never said as much aloud, though. For in truth, when Jean Prouvaire was not in one of his flighty moods, as he was now, Enjolras was rather fond of him, and he knew that he would not take his criticisms well.
"Show it to me when it is," Enjolras said when Jean Prouvaire made no move to explain himself or go on, and he extracted himself from the conversation, but not quite quickly enough to keep from seeing the way Jean Prouvaire's expression brightened.
The poet caught him by the sleeve before he could get far. "There is someone who wishes to meet you, Enjolras."
"Oh?" Enjolras was startled. He could not conceive who might make such a request, but he knew by Jean Prouvaire's expression that he was not suggesting such a thing in casualness.
"It's not another lady admirer, is it?" he asked. "I'm sure she is possessed of a great many charms, Jehan. And I know that you are the sort of man who still believes in love. However..."
"It's a man," Jean Prouvaire said. "An old man, and a foreigner, but one who will be of some interest to you. A Russian who has had..." Here, he hesitated. "Dealings with certain groups in Geneva. Groups with which we share certain interests."
It took Enjolras a moment to decipher the needlessly convoluted language. "A comrade, then? A brother?"
"A brother in arms," Jean Prouvaire said. "He's killed men, Enjolras. He's never said as much, but I really think he's killed..."
"Enough of that talk. We ought never wish our struggle to come to that," Enjolras said. But secretly, his heart thrilled. "Still, though, we ought to be prepared for any eventuality."
"He's expressed an interest in you," Jean Prouvaire ventured. "I didn't tell him anything about your work here. But…"
"I understand. And I shall meet with your friend, if you arrange it."
Jean Prouvaire started as if a current had passed through him. It was a moment before he could stammer out a response. "Yes. Yes, I shall."
Though he was somewhat optimistic about Jean Prouvaire's news, not to mention pleasantly surprised by the contents of Combeferre's folio, Enjolras was also annoyed that so much had taken place while he was away. His greatest fear had been that his lieutenants would have sunk into chaos without him, but his greatest annoyance was that they had carried on almost as well when he wasn't there.
It was then that he spotted Grantaire in one of the corners, not yet drunk enough that he would not cringe and stumble in a most satisfactory manner when attacked. Enjolras turned at once, and fell upon him, with the intent of giving him such a savage dressing down that anyone who witnessed it would wish he'd never come back.